Burn It To The Ground
by Nagi Kokuyo
Summary: Before there was Birkhoff, there was Pyro. Before Division, there was the Brotherhood. Before Nikita and Michael, there was Bobby. Every story has beginning, and everyone has their secrets. Birkhoff left Pyro and that life behind after Alcatraz, but ten years later, it's catching up with him. A collection of unconnected(?) drabbles, John Pyro/Bobby Iceman
1. New

**Okay, so, Pyro is one of my favorite characters from the ****_X-Men _****movies, and Birkhoff is my favorite from ****_Nikita. _****Incidentally, both are portrayed by one amazing Aaron Stanford. I was going to do this whole big thing, but I had so many ideas and couldn't decide which one to use, so I decided to do them all.**

**The drabbles could be considered connected in the same timeline, but they can be read separately. Most of them are John(Pyro)/Bobby(Iceman), but there's also Nikita/Michael, Alex/Sean, and Birkhoff/Ryan...yeah, I don't know either, there were a few moments and for some reason, Sonya just bugs the crap out of me.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own ****_Nikita, X-Men, _****or anything associated with either show. They belong to their respective owners.**

**New || 277**

Seymour Birkhoff was a drugged-up failure at life with no family or friends, a lost cause that no one would miss. That was why Pyro picked him; the real Birkhoff could get replaced by a wanted terrorist and no one would know. It was kinda funny, in a sick, seriously screwed up way. If he could have strung together two sentences, Birkhoff would have been the ideal candidate for Division.

Pyro planned it all out—getting rid of the original, setting up his new life, and all that—but it turned out to be unnecessary. Three days before Pyro was going to kill him, Birkhoff overdosed on cocaine. Died in a ditch, alone, suffocated by his own vomit.

Pathetic.

Pyro incinerated the body best he could and buried the charcoaled remnants in a park; it was more than the loser deserved, anyone else would have just left him where he dropped. Call him sentimental; or actually, don't, because he'd probably break your jaw and laugh as you cried.

He dyed his hair closer to his natural brown to mask the blond streaks, and traded in the rebel-without-a-cause look for the slacker-geek look. With the help of a technopath and one of the Cuckoos, he acquired the computer skills that would make him capable of Shadow Walker's hacking achievements.

One of his _many _talents was disappearing, and he intended to do it very well.

He smirked as he pulled on the new jacket and admired his reflection in the dorm room left to him by the dead sucker. Maybe the original Birkhoff had been a pitiful bastard, but the new one was a force to be reckoned with.

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	2. Prison

**Prison || 813**

Maybe Pyro couldn't create fire out of thin air like Iceman could create ice, and maybe he couldn't turn himself into a living ball of flame. Bobby could spend days in sub-zero temperatures, but John would get heatstroke and die like any regular human. No matter which way you looked at it, it could always be argued that Bobby Drake was the superior mutant.

Which, was probably why Bobby was back at a topnotch school on the fast track to a successful future, and John was rotting in a jail cell, ticking off all the reasons his life sucked ass.

His hands throbbed, and he was reminded of how close he came to losing them; the crack house doctor who'd patched him up after Alcatraz told him that he would probably never have a full range of motion again. Yeah, of course, he was grateful that his hands hadn't fallen off completely, but would it have killed Drake to lay off the hands? The Iceman knew how important Pyro's hands were to him, how necessary they were to his powers.

He looked up as his cell door swung open and a man Pyro hadn't seen before walked in, the door closing behind him. Didn't make a difference, Pyro was chained to the bench. Who chains a hacker to a bench? What did they think he was going to do, they took everything from his laptop to his shoelaces.

The man was handsome in a sharp way, in his late twenties, wearing an expensive-looking suit and…yep, that was a gun in a shoulder holster under his jacket. He wrinkled his nose with disgust as the smell hit him, and the mutant was too tired to be offended; he didn't even notice the stench anymore.

Pyro knew how he must've looked to the man; he'd been in the cell for at least a week, maybe longer, and in that time, he only saw outside these four walls for bathroom break. No time in the yard for this hacker; Jesus, you take a peek at a few classified secrets—and that little red word had been very small and easily missed—and suddenly, you were a terrorist with no rights. He was almost certain that this was totally not legal.

He sure as hell hadn't had a shower, which he desperately needed. His hair was dark and lank with grease, and his clothes were stiff with dried sweat and blood. At least they hadn't made him piss himself, aside from that time in the interrogation room.

Pyro scanned the man from head to foot and shook his head, snorting; he was not impressed with what he saw.

"Well," he said finally, "you're not a lawyer."

The man just blinked, his face completely blank and unreadable; that was strange for Pyro, to not know what someone was thinking. Growing up on the streets and living at the Institute had made him very good at reading people, but this guy…Pyro looked at him and got nothing. Nada, zip, zilch.

He didn't like it.

"Seymour Birkhoff, age twenty, American, born in Canoga Park outside of Los Angeles," the man rattled off, flipping through the folder in a way that told Pyro he wasn't reading it, he was just reciting information he'd memorized earlier; he wanted to make an impression.

"You went to CalTech for two years with no declared major before dropping out. No known address after that, but you keep popping up at homeless shelters and soup kitchens, so I'm guessing you weren't staying in a hotel. Picked up several times by local police for drugs and disorderly conduct, but never prosecuted. More recently, you've been active as the hacker Shadow Walker. Mostly small time stuff—scamming grandparents out of their retirement, skimming from less well known banks, doing jobs for hire—until you screwed up."

Pyro's eyes narrowed. He did not screw up, the CIA just happened to have someone halfway competent doing overtime when they shouldn't have been. That wasn't his fault.

"Let me be very clear. Officially, you do not exist. As far as the general public and prison system is concerned, you died trying to escape. Mr. Birkhoff, you are a dead man. The funeral was two days ago; no one showed up."

Pyro—no, he wasn't Pyro anymore, he was Seymour Birkhoff, he had to remember that, couldn't afford to screw up—felt his stomach drop and the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He'd learned to rely on his intuition, and it had kept him alive on more than one occasion. Now it was telling him to run, run fucker, as far and fast as he could. Except, what with the chains and the tiny cement cell, that would be one hell of a party trick.

"My name is Michael, and I'm here to offer you a job."

Run, fucker.

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	3. Unknown

**Unknown || 219**

Not a day went by that he didn't wonder if leaving the X-Men to join the Brotherhood hadn't been the biggest mistake in his life.

After ten years, he'd had a lot of time to think about all the choices in his life, especially those which had led him here. He replayed that scene in his head every day, wondering what would have happened if he hadn't walked off that plane, if he hadn't let Magneto draw him in with that "god among insects" line. Maybe he would have gone to college, had a steady source of income; maybe he would have even had a girlfriend, or boyfriend.

Maybe he and Bobby would have made it work, and maybe they would share an apartment and have a life together. Instead of waking up to arguing about who holds the record for most successful assassination, he could have been waking up in his lovers arms to lazy kisses and chocolate chip pancakes.

Maybe.

Or, maybe he would have not been on the run from a nonexistent black-ops organization headed by a psychopathic, murderous bitch who wanted his head on a silver platter, aided by two ex-Division agents, an ex-Division Cleaner, a disgraced Navy SEAL, Mini Ethan Hunt (okay, admittedly, being with Ryan only sucked in the phallic sense), and whatever the hell Alex was.

That would have been a definite plus.

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	4. Addict

**Addict || 378**

When Alex fell off the wagon, Birkhoff tried to help.

He looked up ways to help a friend or family member through drug detox, did his research; he'd never had any experience on the side of the supporter, only the druggie. He worked overtime, he ran errands; hell, he even helped with the cooking, and God knows how much he hated to prepare anything more complicated than a TV dinner.

He thought he was being helpful, so he was…hurt when Nikita snapped and told him to get lost. Well, actually, she told him to go back to doing his job instead of getting underfoot, but the subtext was so loud it was practically shouted through a megaphone. All he wanted to do was help Alex—she was like a sister, dammit, like Kitty or Jubilee had been, once upon a time—and instead, they treated him like a nuisance.

He knew what it was like to be the person suffering, struggling to pull through a darkness that felt endless. Before the Professor, St. John's poison had been heroin. The Prof and Dr. Grey had gotten him off it, using telepathy to help assuage the cravings; too bad it had only been temporary. He'd slipped up more times than he could count, and every time, the Professor and Bobby had been there to pick him up again.

It wasn't just the drugs, it was the fire, too—such a rush. There were pyromaniacs and then there was _Pyro, _and there was a huge difference. For the former, it was a compulsion and an obsession, but for the latter, it was the center of a destructive, degenerate psychopath with a bloodlust for chaos. For over a year, John lost himself to Pyro, and it took ten years to find himself again. Maybe the fire wasn't on the DEA's list, but it was stronger and more addictive than anything Niki or Alex had ever taken.

Niki and the others didn't know any of that, because they didn't bother to ask. It never occurred to any of them that their resident geek might have something darker in his past than just a few hacking charges.

They thought he didn't know what it was like to be an addict.

They had no idea.

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	5. Danger

**Danger || 251**

Over the years, he'd let himself become complacent.

Initially, after Alcatraz, he'd done everything he could think of to disappear; he didn't stop at changing his name, he changed his very identity and erased every last trace of St. John Allerdyce he could find. He could never forget the life he left behind—the frostbite scars on his hands and the crescent-shaped one on his forehead were constant reminders—but he had another one in the present, one he'd put a helluva lot of effort into creating. No one who'd known him as John or Pyro could positively link the mutant rebel with Birkhoff or Shadow Walker, not without a DNA test or a powerful telepath, and still the risks of anyone knowing _who _he was and _what _he'd done were slim.

But after that, after a few years in Division, he became lazy and less concerned about getting caught. He'd stopped looking over his shoulder, taking intentionally and overly complicated routes, and using a jammer to interfere with every security camera and mic he passed. He let himself become close to Ryan, open up and actually enjoy life a little; somehow, waking up with someone nestled against you made living on the run from a homicidal assassin organization less stressful. The farther he got from John, the more reckless he'd become, and now it was going to bite him soundly in the arse.

As soon as he saw the smoking, ruined rubble that had once been a bank, charred and broken bodies in the gore-splattered street, he was reminded of how stupid he'd been. _You always knew, _Birkhoff berated himself as he reached for his Brotherhood burner cell, _that the danger was far from over._

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	6. Blind

**Blind || 171**

Standing across from him in the beach house he shared with Niki and Co., Birkhoff was reminded of how open Bobby had always been. The all-American boy had never kept any secrets from his rough-around-the-edges roommate; he'd been easy to read and completely honest about his feelings.

John had always admired that about him, and pitied it, too, because while Bobby was the epitome of good men, he was also very blind to the way the world worked. Bobby had grown up sheltered, playing baseball with his friends and brother, getting straight A's and skating through life as a teacher's pet and momma's boy. He was also blind to the way the world worked. Bobby had never gone hungry in his life, slept in a gutter, or had to let some pervert fuck him for some quick cash.

He was everyone that John never got to be, and for that, John hated him a little.

John had never deserved him, because all he'd ever done was lie, and he'd never stopped.

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	7. Rain

**Rain || 355**

"Hey, nerd! We need you!"

If only Birkhoff could have raised his voice loud enough to respond. Alas, the best—or worst, depending on the point of view—he could do was moan into his pillow. He couldn't hear the rain over the pounding headache, but he could feel it in his bones. Whenever it rained, he felt it—a heavy, almost painful numbness that set into his body. Usually, it was bearable, and he was able to make it through his day with the help of painkillers and nicotine.

Not this time. Niki and her Scooby Gang were out of luck, because this time, he couldn't even make it out of bed. He was about as useful as a rock.

The covers were yanked down, exposing him to the too-hot room; that always happened when it rained. His body tried to compensate for the rain and the extra heat bled out into the environment. Bobby used to counteract the extra heat with his natural cold, but…Bobby wasn't around anymore.

_And whose fault is that?_

"Nerd! What are you—oh."

When had Niki gotten so close to the bed? Scratch that, when had she even come into his room?

Instead of saying anything, he groaned and wished he could muster the energy to snatch back his blanket; he could barely lift his limbs enough to move the pillow. The bed dipped where Nikita sat down, and then she was stroking his head and he was resisting the urge to moan. Bobby used to do that, before…well. Before. He hadn't told Niki or Mikey that he was a mutant, but they were freaking _spies, _he was sure they'd figured it out by now.

"It's okay, Nerd, it can wait. I'm here."

He lost track of time, but she sat with him for a long time, and damn, if it didn't feel good to have somebody, _anybody _with him on a rainy day. For ten years, he'd spent them alone, drugged up to his eyeballs so he could stay upright. Now, he didn't have to deal with it, because _she _was there.

Yeah, he really hated rain.

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	8. Closed

**Closed || 172  
**

From what Bobby could see, after ten years, John was the same. Sure, his hair had grown out and John had stopped dying it, and yeah, he had stubble and a little beard now, and okay, he was taller and more solid. But that hardness in his eye, the way he held himself, how his face was set in stone—_that_ was exactly the same.

Bobby knew how John got that look—living on the streets as a twelve-year-old was a life-changing thing that would screw anybody up. After a few years at the Institute, the pyrokinetic got better, but he was never exactly an open guy; he nearly broke Sam's wrist for patting him on the shoulder. Bobby didn't know what it was like to be the scrawny, underfed, too-pale kid huddled in the bus station, getting money from pity and sucking off middle-aged family men in the bathroom. Yeah, he could imagine, but he would never actually know.

He was still locked down, closed to the rest of the world.

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	9. Taken

**Taken || 323  
**

_At the end of the hallway, there were shadows silhouetted in the window—men hanging from ropes._

_A loud _BOOM _traveled down the hallway; the window exploded into glass, flame, and debris. Glass flew everywhere, student were sent sprawling._

_A harried escape broken by men with bright flashlights._

_Gunfire ripping through the school; the muffled _pew, pew _of the tranq guns._

_Blood splattered on the walls, an animalistic howl, raw and angry._

_A piercing shriek, loud and shrill and shattering, resonated throughout the Mansion._

Maybe it was his inbred paranoia or his years on the run from so many different things, but something made him pause in the hallway before he reached the kitchen. He stopped and listened, setting down his bag carefully and silently. For several seconds, there was nothing, and he had almost convinced himself that he'd been imagining it. And then…_tha-thump._

Footsteps, coming from around the corner; they must have entered through the front door, pretentious assholes. _Knock-knock, _he thought sarcastically. He flattened himself against the wall and slowly scooted to the corner, brushing the pad of his middle and ring fingers against the igniter. _One…two…_three! He leapt out, arm pulling back to throw the fireball in his hand. If he hadn't hesitated, then maybe he would have gotten away.

He choked back a gasp as the dart buried itself in his chest. Immediately he felt the effects start to take hold. Numbly, he reached up and yanked it out, and stared at the metal and glass object in his hand as his vision went blurry.

"I really hope that's not the cure," was all that managed to get out before the world started spinning like a carousel on steroids and his legs buckled.

Bzzt_. "Sir, target designation Firebug has been neutralized."_

The last thing he thought before he hit the ground was, _It's just like that night._

The clichéd curtain dropped over him. _Exit, stage left. That's all, folks._

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	10. Torture

**Torture || 661  
**

When he found out who sold him out to the Purifiers, he was going to turn them to ashes, laughing while they screamed, and then torch their ashes.

"AHHHHH!"

He threw his head back as another scream escaped. His chest heaved with each labored breath, and muscles jumped underneath sweat-slicked, blood-caked skin, straining against the straps.

Pain was the wrong word for this; it was agony. Every nerve was on fire, and not the good kind, not _his _kind. It hurt, God it _hurt, _but he wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of giving in and telling them what they wanted to know. He was better than that, and he'd been through worse; he could handle a little electroshock, no problem. Hell, it might even help with some of his personal issues; he could do with a higher pain tolerance. He sucked in a breath when the current abated, and met the eyes of his torturer, some sadist soldier with a racist high-and-mighty attitude—Abrams, J. according to the patch on his fatigues.

"Who are you? _What _are you, freak? Because you sure as hell ain't human."

He—because he didn't know _who _he was anymore, and thus couldn't decide what name to call himself by—made a mental note to torch the soldier as soon as he got free. Which, considering he was strapped to a chair (flashback to Amanda) with an IV in his arm, with no back up, no idea where he was or how long he'd been there, and an interrogator without a sense of humor, might be a little more difficult than he thought.

They should be grateful he wouldn't tell, because the only reason they were still alive was because they _didn't _know who he was, or who he'd been.

He grinned against everything, baring bloodied teeth, and said hoarsely, "Neither are you, asshole."

_SMACK! _His head whipped to the side with the force of the blow, and he tasted fresh blood in his mouth. Ouch. Apparently, he misspoke. Or sinned. Or breathed. He chuckled, brokenly and hysterically. He'd taken so much worse than this, long before Amanda and Division. When he'd been on the streets after his so called family abandoned him, he'd done a lot of things he wasn't proud of; he'd stolen, lied, killed, and whored himself out to survive.

This time, it was a heated, sharpened screwdriver driven into his exposed forearm. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming and giving them the satisfaction; he tasted blood, hot and metallic, on his tongue.

He wasn't even sure _who _they were interrogating. Was it St. John Allerdyce, the broken street kid with serious psychological and trust issues, who'd been saved only to lose himself all over again? Was it Pyro, a killer, angry at everyone, burning away everything that had made John weak? Was it Seymour Birkhoff, a cocky hacker and criminal with the bad habit of clicking a lighter and a seriously questionable moral code, completely unconnected to either of the others?

Was it someone else entirely, someone he hadn't discovered yet? Was it all of the them?

Or none of the above? Because he had no idea who he was anymore; somewhere along this crazy, fucked up path he was walking, he'd lost himself, and he didn't know if he would ever find himself again.

Nothing anyone else did to him could compare to the hell he put himself through. There was only one person who'd ever come close, and they hadn't spoken in a very long time. His only regrets were that, if he were to die in this place at the hands of his torturers, he'd never gotten the chance to tell Nikki and the gang the truth, or Ryan that he loved him, or Bobby Drake, "I'm sorry."

Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut instead of calling the captor-in-charge a cock-sucking, bent-over troglodyte, even if it was true.

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	11. Drugged

**Drugged || 504  
**

He blinked slowly, staring at a spot on the wall but not seeing, not really. His mind was fuzzy and his thoughts sluggish. _I'm drugged, _he realized, but as soon as this knowledge surfaced it was swept away. His muscles burned, but he couldn't really feel it anymore. He just felt…numb, and detached—cold. He vaguely remembered hearing the words _catatonic _and _broken, _but he couldn't recall the rest.

He was a little hazy on the details, and his attention span was the size of a squirrel's, but he was mostly coherent. He'd drifted to sleep a few times, and they'd delighted in waking him up with a cold bucket of water or another shock. He didn't know how long he'd been here, and he didn't even know where "here" was; if he had, he probably wouldn't have remembered.

There was a quick burst of...something in his left cheekbone and the world spun; the movement sent jolts of pain through his skull and set off fireworks behind his eyes, and he moaned. If he'd been anywhere near coherent, he would have been embarrassed by the sound that escaped his lips, because he was _Pyro, _dammit, and Pyro most certainly didn't sound hurt or vulnerable. His teeth clacked together and he tasted copper on his tongue.

Someone was yelling at him; you shouldn't yell, you should use your inside voice and ask nicely. He remembered that from when he was a little kid; then the memory slipped away. Breathing hurt—did it hurt?—and he felt like he'd been used as Wolverine's personal punching bag.

There were faces swimming in front of his eyes, indistinct and crystal clear at the same time. There was dark hair and blonde hair, kind eyes and a cruel smile, and claws and fur and a hand extending out of a wall, and he couldn't tell who was who and who was real, because some of them were real, right?

Yeah, he was definitely drugged. He hoped he hadn't said anything stupid, or classified, or incriminating. There was plenty of all three.

Dimly, he heard people calling. Their voices sounded familiar, but he couldn't place where he'd heard them before. He wasn't even sure what they were saying. It sounded important; their tone of urgency told him it was important. But he couldn't distinguish the words from the pounding in his ears. It drowned everything else out, but it was getting slower. Soon, it would stop altogether and he would be able to hear them. His vision was ebbing away, going black around the edges, and he knew he should be worried about that because it couldn't be good, but he didn't remember _why._

Were they calling him? He tried to answer, to call out, to make any sound whatsoever, but his lips wouldn't move, his vocal chords refused to cooperate, and all he could manage was a pathetic sounding whimper.

Then he was falling and the last thing he heard before blacking out completely was someone screaming at him.

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	12. Power

**Power || 905  
**

He'd never stopped practicing, even if he was limited to an easy-to-carry lighter instead of the gauntlets he'd had on Alcatraz; they'd been shattered by Iceman when he froze Pyro's hands. He'd just never lit 'em up where Percy, Amanda, or some ambitious young recruit could see and snitch on him.

A little under a year after Alcatraz, he'd arrived at Division, and Amanda had confiscated his lighter and cigarettes. She called his lighter and his smoking destructive coping habits used to make him feel in control. She'd also subjected him to the same searches as the recruits, confiscating any smokes, lighters, or matches he tried to bring back with him from the outside world.

It…well, it didn't piss him _on._

The fire was an extension of who he was, as much a part of him as an arm or leg, like Bobby's ice or Wolverine's claws or Mystique's shifting. When Rogue had zapped him, at Bobby's house after the attack on the Institute, he'd felt in that fleeting moment what it meant to be human. He'd felt his fire smothered and nearly put out; he'd felt empty, numb, as if his blood had been replaced with Novocain.

He never wanted to feel like that again.

He would do _anything_ to keep his fire from being taken. He wouldn't let himself fall into complicity by getting lazy, so he'd stuck to the shadows, choosing to fall back and keep it on the down low. He had no intention of being slapped with an inhibitor collar and tossed in a cell; they'd throw away the keys and forget he existed, and he would rot there, degenerating until the only thing left were his bones.

Now he slid on his gauntlets for the first time in years and it felt _right_.

He had the power of a wildfire at his fingertips; he could turn people to ash with a brush against his palm. Not that he did that anymore; he'd gotten a handle on his temper, and while he could think of a few people he'd like to incinerate, he'd mellowed and didn't want the attention. He was still on the MRD's most wanted list of mutant terrorists—you'd think that after ten years they'd forget about a mouthy pyrokinetic in a faux leather jacket. It wasn't like he was running about robbing banks and setting innocents on fire. Jackasses who beat their wives and kids, yes, but not just ordinary people on the street. He was better than that; they weren't worth it.

He was a god. They were insects.

That principle applied to Niki and the gang just as much as the barista behind the counter or the cashier at Wal-Mart. They were insects, albeit kickass, deadly, well-trained assassin-ninja insects.

They didn't know what he was, _who _he'd been; if he could help it, they would never know, not until he could be out as a mutant and not get shot. It wasn't because he was worried they would turn him over to the MRD—Nikita, Michael, Alex, Ryan, even Boy Scout Sean had all one just as bad in their time on Planet Earth—but because he didn't want them to know. If he were killed in this war against Division, which was looking more and more likely, it was better they mourn badass hacker Seymour Birkhoff than the mutant traitor/terrorist Pyro.

He had been in the spotlight, on the front lines of a war that had marked the beginning of a new era. He'd thought back then, it was a good fight, he was proud to fight. He had burned brighter than any star in the sky, like that Greek myth about Daedalus and Icarus. Just like the boy in the story, he'd flown up higher than ever before; he'd gotten too close to the sun, and he had been burned.

Just like Icarus and his wings, he'd fallen.

He'd faced off against Bobby, his once-upon-a-time best friend; he'd gambled everything, and he'd lost.

He'd fallen farther so hard, he hadn't been sure he would ever get up again. Everything else had been fallen around him; his leader had been defeated, the army decimated, the bodies of his comrades broken and bleeding around him. He didn't know exactly what happened after Iceman—not Bobby, Iceman, and was that how Bobby had felt when John became Pyro?—but he'd read the reports. He watched news footage and he read articles. He had a basic sketch, but he didn't know for sure.

He didn't know how he'd survived. He should have been killed, ripped apart by the Phoenix's flames; those flames, horrible and terrifying, flames he couldn't possibly hope to control.

He didn't know, but he had an idea.

The papers listed him among the dead, and he hadn't corrected that mistake. Because it wasn't a mistake, not really. John Allerdyce, Pyro—they had been killed by those flames. He'd taken the chance offered him and remade himself. Seymour Birkhoff had been a back-up identity, taken from a cocaine addict who'd overdosed; he'd taken the identity and added the hacking skills he'd learned during his time with the Brotherhood.

He'd fallen, and he'd risen up from the ashes. Just like the phoenix. The Phoenix. The irony did not escape him.

The time of Pyro had passed. It was time for him to stay out of the sun. It was the time of the great and powerful Shadow Walker.

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	13. Safe

**Safe || 147  
**

Birkhoff was beaten, bloody, and broken—yay, alliteration—and his left arm hung uselessly at his side. A small war raged throughout Division, mutants verses operatives, and while he'd always thought the walls of the compound were painted in blood, now it was literal. Both sides wanted him dead, and he couldn't much blame them. He deserved all the animosity aimed towards him; he'd more than earned it over the years.

When he finally fell into Bobby's arms, he was exhausted and half-dead; he couldn't feel the pain anymore, and he knew _that _couldn't be good.

"I've got you," Bobby murmured into soft brown hair, clutching John to his body like he was going to disappear any second. "Don't worry, I've got you, and I'm not letting you go, not again."

_Yeah, _he wanted to say, _I know. _And he did know; with Bobby, he was safe.

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	14. Hands

**Hands || 599  
**

It was Alex who asked.

He knew they noticed—_everyone_ had noticed at some point—but the only person who asked him what happened was the doctor he'd met with upon his arrival at Division. At that point, it had been just under a year since it happened.

A year since Alcatraz.

He told the doctor he'd been burned in a house fire when he was twelve. It was almost true. There _had _been a fire (_he'd started it_), and his hands _had _been burned (_burned by ice, by Ice, by _him).

The best lies were the ones based on truths.

He'd caught people staring; they always made up some half-assed excuse, blushing and stammering and looking away quickly, pretending they hadn't been gawking. Sometimes he was glad they didn't ask; sometimes, he wished they would.

Ten years after Alcatraz, and no one had asked him.

In a decade, no one had asked him how he'd gotten the scars on his hands, the splotchy, shiny tissue that distorted his skin, rough to the touch, blending seamlessly into the rare untouched skin. Not Niki, who always got this _look _on her face when she noticed them, as if she suspected the worst and didn't want those suspicions confirmed; not Michael, who's gaze would always linger on his hands, full of curiosity, worry, and finally restraint. Not Amanda, who would give him that meaningful look that said she knew he had issues and he had to confront them; not Percy, who pretended the scars didn't exist, because why should he care if it didn't affect the hacker's work?

No one asked until Alex.

It was a lazy day, one of those increasingly rare times when there wasn't a mission—no one to save, no one to avenge. He was working on his laptop—he couldn't remember what on, probably some harmless hacking, maybe looking around the Black Box contents; she was making herself lunch. She plopped down on the couch next to him, took a bite out of her sandwich which barely seemed edible—must be a Russian thing, like vodka and those nesting dolls, and she asked.

"What happened to your hands?"

She asked and he stared. He stared at her, not sure if he'd heard her correctly, because no one had ever asked him. He wasn't sure how he was supposedly to feel now that someone had; he wasn't surprised that it was _Alex _who asked. That was the kind of person she was, blunt, curious, and completely without tact when she wasn't kissing up. Somewhere behind them, he knew Niki and Michael had gone very still, caught somewhere between respect for his secrets and a gnawing curiosity.

_"It gnaws me! It gnaws me!" Laughter._

_"Bobby, not only are you a hopeless nerd, you're also a dork." A balled-up straw wrapper flicked across the table._

_"Oh, lighten up, Johnny! Just because you don't like American lit doesn't mean you should ruin it for me." A grin._

And then he laughed, a cross between a chuckle and a hysterical mental breakdown. When Bobby had morphed before his eyes, from flesh and blood to solid ice; it had been horrible and strange and beautiful, and then Pyro's fire couldn't touch him and he had known what true fear felt like.

"I played with fire, and I got burned." He wasn't sure if it was metaphoric or literal. Both.

She looked like she wanted to know more, but she didn't ask again. He was grateful. Because the past was a place he didn't want to go again.

He didn't want to remember.

**Please review!**


	15. Valentine

**Valentine || 149  
**

He'd always hated it, especially during his time at the Institute. Before, it had been a meaningless holiday; the only benefit was that tons of suckers would buy flowers from a scrawny, dirty kid on a street corner. Then, he'd been at the Institute, full of lovey-dovey couples that made him sick.

It was one of the things he liked about Division—Valentine's Day didn't exist. February 14th was just another day in a long series of days that all blended together.

Until one year, he went on a comic run.

It happened so fast, if it weren't for the piece of paper nestled securely in his pocket, he would have thought he'd imagined it.

A bump in the shoulder, a whisper in his ear.

_"John."_

Valentine's Day still sucked, but at least…at least he knew of someone else who was suffering just like him.

_John,_

_Don't forget._

_Bobby._

**Please review!**


	16. Mutant

**Mutant || 683  
**

_"Mutation: it is the key to our evolution. It has enabled us to evolve from a single-celled organism into the dominant species on Earth. This process is slow and normally takes thousands and thousands of years. But every few hundred millennia, evolution leaps forward." – Professor Charles Xavier_

"You're a mutant."

It wasn't a question, but it also wasn't an accusation; it was a statement, and the ex-CIA analyst said it the same way he would discuss the weather. If he hadn't known any better, Birkhoff wouldn't have noticed the sharp, hard glint in Ryan's eyes or the stiffness in his shoulders; he was _pissed. _Either way, Birkhoff figured that this wasn't the right time to find out how Ryan felt about handcuffs and riding crops; that could wait for later.

Birkhoff—no, he was _John _now_, _but they didn't need to know that, not the specifics—shrugged, but beneath the nonchalant exterior, he was wound up tight, ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. His eyes flicked over the room, taking inventory and judging escape routes. A lifetime of running didn't exactly wear off just because you're in the same place for a decade or so; that place being Division probably didn't help.

"Yeah, so?" Cocky, smooth, without a care in the world—very Birkhoff.

_Five people: Niki, Mikey, Alex, Own, Mini Ethan Hunt. Window: unlocked and partially open, behind Owen and to the right—two story drop, I can make that. Door: locked, not too thick to kick down, wood—good. Walls: pretty thin, plaster and plywood—I can burn that in a heartbeat._

Now, John was pretty damn fast—he had a lot of experience running from people a lot bigger and stronger than he was—but four out of the five were trained Division; he wasn't willing to bet his life that he could get out without one of them catching him. So, unless he wanted to light 'er up, he'd have to fall back on an old favorite: lie his ass off.

"You failed to mention that."

He shrugged, trying not to wince; his muscles burned from overuse, and it was exhausting, mentally and physically, to keep the fire in check. It didn't like being reigned in, and there was always the temptation to let it go.

But, he remembered what happened last time. He remembered how it twisted him, turning John into Pyro. He couldn't—_wouldn't _go through that again. So he would just have to deal and the fire would just have to be patient.

"You never asked."

Niki smacked him upside the head, hard enough to let him know she didn't think it was funny. He scowled up at her and rubbed the spot, but one look from her kept his mouth shut. He would just complain about it later, you know, when there weren't four assassins ready to snap his neck before he made it to the door.

"You should have told us," said Alex, and if he tried really hard, John could pretend he didn't see the hurt.

He snorted. "Oh, and say what—Hi, my name's Birkhoff and I'm a mutant, please arrest me and toss me into a non-existent prison because I _might _be dangerous?" He gave Ryan a pointed look which was returned in full.

_"Are _you dangerous?" the analyst asked. John stiffened and folded his arms, eyes narrowing. If he didn't have great control, something would have spontaneously combusted in a fantastic light show.

"I dunno," he said tightly, "are _you?"_

Ryan sighed and ran a hand through his hair, and nodded. "Okay, point taken. Is your…" He paused, searching for a word that wouldn't piss off the unrestrained mutant within strangling distance. After several seconds, John decided to take mercy on the guy. Lord knew they'd all been through enough the past few days.

"'Mutation,'" he prompted, "if you want to be PC, but I personally like 'gift.'" He nodded. "And yeah, under the right circumstances, I guess I could be dangerous."

That was another title to add to his collection—whore, runaway, heartbreaker, traitor, terrorist, King of Understatement.

**Please review!**


	17. Loyalty

**Loyalty || 388  
**

He was standing at a crossroads—or a quad-roads? What was it called with four options?—and he didn't know what to do. It was starting to be a familiar feeling, or rather, one that's returned from a time long past. A war was coming, and he didn't know where he stood. That was a good way to get killed.

He could stay with Team Niki and fight Division, even though he personally thought it was a suicide mission; a _noble _mission, but almost guaranteed to get them all killed, if not worse. Conceivably, death would be a blessing.

He could probably survive running back to Percy, if he brought something juicy enough as a peace offering; the man was, at the most simplistic, a businessman, and having Birkhoff on _his _side—or at least _not _with Nikita—was a good investment. He certainly _couldn't _go back to Amanda and Division, he wouldn't even get the mercy of being shot on sight.

He knew he could always return to Magneto and be welcomed back to the Brotherhood. He could take up his old position as Magneto's lieutenant and serve his brothers and sisters in the fight for freedom. He'd heard rumors that Magneto was campaigning for sovereignty of a small country to form a motherland for all mutantkind; to be a part of that dream would be a real honor.

Or, hell, he could run with his tail tucked between his legs straight to Westchester and the Xavier Institute. If he showed up on their doorstep, after all these years, he would surely be greeted with animosity, suspicion, and dislike; he was, after all, a traitor. But, he would explain everything that had happened since Alcatraz—the Professor was alive and kicking, he could read John's mind to confirm—and at the very least, they would grant him temporary sanctuary until he could move on.

He was strongly tempted to take one of the latter two options, and let Seymour Birkhoff fade away and disappear. But, he owed Nikita his loyalty, and she was counting on him; he couldn't let her down. Besides, he was kinda fond of their motley gang of freaks. He would stay and weather out the storm, fighting the good fight and all that jazz.

He wouldn't forsake them, not for anything or anyone.

**Please review!**


	18. Peace

**Peace || 195  
**

For nearly a decade after the Battle of Alcatraz, there was peace. Efforts and sacrifices were made by both sides, and it took hard work from people like Hank McCoy. A lot of people still regarded mutants with suspicion and, yes, sometimes hatred. The United States would never forget the day an army of mutants marched upon San Francisco; they would never forget what mutants were capable of, and neither would the whole of humanity. Still, that had been over ten years ago, and there hadn't been a major incident since.

Ten years was a long time. It was a decade; lifetimes were measured that way. It could pass in the blink of an eye or it could drag on for what seems like forever; sometimes, ten years can feel endless. For the United States of America, it was ten years passed in peace and harmony.

On the whole, the two species lived in unison. It seemed like the could-have-beens of Alcatraz had been the catalyst for the necessary change; the world was changing, and finally, the people were changing with it. With the Brotherhood dormant and silent, Professor Charles Xavier's dream was coming true.


	19. War

**War || 216**

But, like all good things, the peace came to an end. It had always been a matter of time; Birkhoff had always known that, even before he'd gotten a peek behind the curtain of CIA intelligence. A variation of the Mutant Registration Act was introduced to Congress, a new version of the Brotherhood rose up and struck at a world that feared them, and there were attacks and losses on both sides. When a six-year-old human girl was killed on a field trip by a shard of strong-as-steel bone, all the tension of the past decade boiled over.

He knew what was coming next; he'd been on the front lines the last time. Maybe he hadn't served in the Middle East, but he'd been to war, and it was seared into his memory like a cattle brand. That's what mutant were to people like Senator Kelly—cattle, no better than an animal. He still woke up in the middle of the night, nearly biting clear through his lip to keep his screams to whines, nails digging into his thighs; he had scars, accumulated over the years.

Birkhoff—no, John—knew with a cold, concrete certainty that he would have to make a choice and pick a side. He hoped he didn't pick the wrong one.

Again.


	20. Replacement

**Replacement || 1,009  
**

Hey, Bobby, it's me again.

I don't know why I write these letters, because I never send them. I write 'em, seal 'em; hell, I even address 'em. But, that's it. I do all that and then I torch them. I lift up the lighter, watch it catch, and then I watch while the paper turns black and curls in, and gradually, turns to ashes. I never speed it up, because using my gift to burn my letters to you…it feels _wrong._

Anyway, normally, I'd tell you about what's going on in Division—remember, I told you about that? I know, you'd shake your head and _tsk, _because I know, I really stepped in it this time. Now, don't get mad, but I have something new to tell you. I don't think you'd be mad, I think you'd be happy for me, and that hurts more than if you hated me for it. At least I know how to deal with hate.

I've started seeing someone—you know, romantically, as in there's something actually there, not just sex. Though, it is _really _great sex. Heh. Imagine that—me, in a romantic relationship. Can you believe it? Yeah, sometimes I can't believe it, either. After you…I never thought I would find anyone else. I know, we were just kids, but you always believed in true love at first sight. I used to think, hey, if it _could _happen, you were mine. I still think that, sometimes. Not too much, and I always feel really guilty, because he's amazing.

His name is Ryan Fletcher. I think I mentioned him before; he's the CIA analyst who investigated Division, and was framed for the assassination of that Chilean presidential candidate? I laugh when I think about that, because he doesn't even kill spiders when he finds them at home; he's a real sweetheart, and please freeze me now for using that word. Oh yeah, laugh it up, Icicle. At least I'm getting some from _my _guy; can't say the same thing about you and Rogue. Sorry, that was uncalled for. I heard about the Cure turning out to be temporary; that really sucks for her, I know how much it meant to her that she could touch. She's not a bad person, I just didn't like the way you dropped me for her.

And back to Ryan. I think you'd really like him. He's in way over his head, openly helping Nikita fight Division. If Nikita hadn't been there to help him, he would have been dead faster than you can "ice up." Don't have to worry about that anymore, because now, he's got me. I'll protect him, 'till the end of the Earth if I have to.

He knows about my gift, and at first, I think it scared the crap outta him, knowing what I can do and the kind of damage I can cause. But, now, it's all sorted, and he's handling it, knowing he's dating a mutant freak. Sometimes he'll watch me when I practice; he likes it when I make animals with the flames. Cats and horses are his favorite. I haven't told him _exactly _who I am, because I think even Ryan couldn't deal with dating the guy who helped Magneto lead an army against Alcatraz and killed all those people in that cure center I blew up. I told him my real name was John, I'm Australian, and I'm basically Charlie freaking McGee.

He calls me Johnny, like you do—did. Past tense. I forget sometimes. Especially when we're in bed. Damn, for such a good guy, he's pretty kinky. Handcuffs, blindfolds, some fire-play and dom/sub—I guess the sayings true, it's always the quiet ones. Like I said, it's more than just sex.

Hey, don't roll your eyes, I had to listen to you blather on and on about Rogue; it's payback time, baby, for having to listen to Michael and Nikita, or Alex and that SEAL guy. Baby. I call Ryan 'baby', just not when the others are around. They know we're together, of course; the walls aren't _that _thick, if you know what I mean—not him, me. But, you already knew that, didn't you? You used to make me bite down on something so the whole Mansion didn't hear. Not Ryan, he likes to hear me, especially when he—yes, I'm usually the bottom. What can I say? I might be a whore, but at least I'm one who knows his place.

I know you won't believe it, but I can actually cook halfway decent now; Michael and Niki taught me some stuff, but mostly, I learned it from the Exchange. Hey! I know you wouldn't approve of the Exchange, but I like it; that's how I got my tech knowledge, remember? Without the Exchange, I'd be dead. You can appreciate that, right? Anyway, Ryan loves that chicken and rice dish Ms. Munroe used to make; I remember, you hated it, mostly because it had carrots and peas, and you hated those.

Sometimes, he gives me this _look, _and I know that he knows. He knows that my heart still belongs to someone else, that I can't give everything to him. I wish I could, I really do, but _dammit, _Bobby, you just won't leave me alone. Why? Why won't you leave me? After ten damn years, I just want to move on, and I want Ryan to be the guy I move on with. I hate doing this to him, making him go through life knowing I can never love him the way he loves me. He doesn't deserve that; he deserves so much better than me. I'm trash, the bottom of the barrel, and he could have anybody, because he's the bravest, kindest, and more patient man I know. But, he wants me, and he has me, for as long as he'll let me stay.

Don't get me wrong, Ryan is amazing, and I think I love him.

But.

Yeah, but. But, he'll never be you. He's only a replacement.


	21. Trapped

**Trapped || 335  
**

He screamed and threw himself against the glass, pain radiating out of cracked ribs. He didn't know how long he'd been at it, or how long he'd been locked in the cell; they took his watch, and he couldn't see a damn clock. Someone had brought him food earlier; he'd hurled the tray against the wall.

_Bang!_

On the other side, Nikita flinched as he banged into the glass again. Good, she _should _be afraid; how _dare _she let them do this to him? She should have done something, instead of just standing back and watching as Mini Ethan Hunt had him sedated, and Michael and Owen tossed him kicking and screaming into a cell; he'd thought she cared about him.

God, had he been wrong! If she cared, she wouldn't have let them do this to him. Couldn't she see what the goddamn "cure" was doing? It was tearing through his insides, like someone had thrust a barbed knife in his gut and wrenched. That was no cure they injected him with, it was poison, and it was killing him and _fuck! _Why couldn't they just _fucking _see?!

Who did they think they were?! He was Pyro, dammit!

_Bang!_

He slammed his body into the clear wall again, letting an animalistic howl convey all the pain and fury words could not describe. Something would give eventually—either the damn strong glass partition or his throbbing shoulder—but he wasn't about to stop. His so-called friends needed to understand exactly how deep they'd betrayed him.

_Bang!_

Michael put an arm around Nikita's shoulders and pulled her close, and said something to her that Pyro couldn't make out. She nodded, and gave him one last, sad look before letting her fiancée lead her away. Fuck them! He didn't want their fucking pity! He wanted _out!_

_Bang!_

He pounded on the glass and howled. His hands were raw and bloody; crimson smeared on the glass with each hit.

_BANG!_

Cracks spiderwebbed under his fist, and he smiled.


	22. Jealous

**Jealous || 848  
**

**Request from The Sangheili Mutant, my wonderful reviewer; actually, he/she is the ONLY person to review (and I know more than one person reads this, would it kill any of you to say, "good job, I liked this one, could you do more like this"?). I wasn't sure how to do this, so I hope you enjoy. Request was: _maybe you can do one where Birkhoff is with either Bobby or Ryan and the other finds them and Birkhoff has to choose?_**

**I love the concept, so here we go!**

**Also, this one will contain sexual themes between men, so if that squicks you, don't read.**

John wasn't exactly sure when he realized that he was going to sleep with Bobby, but he thought it had been somewhere between the second beer and the Iceman's admission that he still wondered where their relationship could have went if things had gone differently. John wondered the same thing, sometimes.

He remembered taking a swig of beer before leading Bobby to the bedroom; it was just them, everyone else was out. They were through the door for about forty seconds before John found himself pressed hard against the wall, Bobby teasing open his mouth with his tongue. Hands tangled in hair, tugging and yanking back heads to expose throats to teeth. Shirts and belts hastily, hungrily thrown aside until it was only fingers exploring flesh. Somehow, out of pure luck probably, they made to the bed without separating, and then Bobby was nibbling at the junction between neck and shoulder, and John was trying to undo their pants with one hand and his head thrown back as a wave of ecstasy passed over him when Bobby bit down in precisely the right spot.

Steam rose up where skin touched, and the more excited and fervent they grew, the muggier the room became as a cold front clashed with a heat wave.

In the moments that they rose high on the swells of rapture, John marveled at how life had changed. They weren't boys screwing around in their dorm room anymore, pretending that the world wasn't on the verge of war between species; they were men, both standing on the front lines, ready to fight. Within the walls of the apartment, they found brief solace from two wars—one in defense of mutants, the one against Division and associates. Before long, after fire and ice had danced their fill, the old friends would part ways once again to fight their respective wars.

Until then…

As Bobby moved inside him, John reached up and pulled him down into a kiss, as deep and slow as his thrusts. It was better than it used to be because _they _were better, more experienced and capable of loving each other. When they moved together, it was no longer between awkward teens, unsure of what to do or how to please; it was full of the years they'd spent apart, and all the experiences that made them different and yet the same.

"Seymour?"

His head snapped to the side, eyes locking with Ryan's, and one thought went through his lust-addled brain: _oh, shit. _Before he could make his mouth form words, Ryan was gone and John remembered that he was in bed, naked, making love with another man and his boyfriend had just walked in on them.

_Oh, shit_ was right.

Bobby brushed a kiss against his cheek and murmured, "Go to him," against the stubble. John nodded and pulled away, tugging on his jeans as he stumbled across his room; he was suddenly thankful for the semi-clear path their hasty journey to the bed had created through his mess.

He caught Ryan as he was heading up the stairs towards the door, snagging his jacket sleeve and halting the ex-CIA analyst in his tracks.

"Ryan, just…hold on," he pleaded, "let me explain."

His heart throbbed in his chest when he registered the slew of emotions in Ryan's eyes, all battling for dominance—betrayal, fear, anger, probably some hatred mixed in there, too.

"What's to explain?" Ryan asked, all of those emotions pouring out in three words. He tugged, trying to pull his sleeve free, and failed.

John—no, Birkhoff—no, _Seymour, _shook his head. "Look, it's—"

"It's 'not what it looks like'?" Ryan asked, incredulous. Yeah, that would sound bad, considering he'd just walked in on them.

"No, you're right, it's _exactly _what it looks like, but I have to explain." Seymour ran a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it down and make it look less mussed. "He came over with some intel I asked for, and we had a few beers while we caught up, and…" He trailed off. It was clearly obvious what came after that.

Ryan snorted. "Let me guess, one thing led to another?"

Seymour shrugged, smiling sheepishly and hoping Ryan wasn't _too _angry. There wasn't really anything he could say to make this better. He'd slept with his ex-boyfriend, and his current boyfriend had walked in on them red….well, not _handed, _but some body part. All he could do was hope to calm Ryan down and beg forgiveness.

Ryan shook his head, sighing; on the plus side, he let go of the railing and stepped down so he was eye-to-eye with the hacker. He stared at him for a long time, and Seymour got the feeling that Ryan was searching for something, and he would have helped, except he didn't know what that _something _was.

"You couldn't have at least locked the door?" he asked, finally, and Seymour let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

Seymour laughed, a little breathlessly and a fair deal nervously. "Sorry, we were a little preoccupied."

**Not sure I like how this turned out, because it doesn't exactly fulfill the second part of the prompt, but hey, it was fun to write.**

**And remember what I said about reviewing.**


	23. Gay

**Gay || 374  
**

"So, you're gay?"

Birkhoff sighed and tilted his head back, trying to get the last drops out of the can. This was a conversation he'd been trying to avoid. Not that he thought anyone on Team Niki was a homophobe, he just didn't see the point. Finally, he stopped hoping that the Red Bull can would conveniently come to life and swallow him, and turned his attention to Alex. Of all people…well, at least it wasn't Mikey. _That _would be massively awkward.

"Why would you ask me that?"

"Because you were _totally _ogling Owen earlier when Nikita was patching him up. Straight guys don't drool when someone as good looking as _him _walk around in their boxers, and you practically needed a towel."

It would have been nice if she hadn't said it so matter-of-factly.

Or if she hadn't been right.

"…I wasn't drooling."

She laughed triumphantly, clapping her hands, and then vaulted over the back of the couch, dropping down next to him with a bounce.

"I was right! You _are _gay!"

He rolled his eyes.

"I'm not gay, Princess." He searched for the right way to explain it; he'd only had to do it once before, and Bobby had been a lot easier. "I just…gender doesn't matter for me. I'm not into someone because of their equipment; it's the _person _that matters, not whether they have a dick or not."

He paused, then amended, "Not that I don't love boobs. Boobs are nice."

She bumped his shoulder with hers, scoffing. "God, _you're _a boob."

This was nice, he realized, just hanging with someone and not having the pressure to live up to standards. It had been a long time since he'd had that; actually, he didn't think he'd had it since…well. Since _him. _Alex wasn't Nikita or Michael, he didn't have to constantly prove himself to her.

She stared at him for a long time, long enough that he started to feel like he was right back in the Professor's office, called in because the physics lab just _happened _to catch on fire the day he had an exam.

Then she shrugged.

"Okay. Now scoot over; there's a movie I wanna watch."

"Uhh…okay."

"And this time, you are _not _hogging the chips."

**Please review! Nearing the end of this series, so I think I'll just post the rest now. I hope you enjoyed reading this series, because I loved writing it. I think I'm going to continue my _Nikita_ kick and write more drabbles, but with a broader cast; keep an eye out, just in case. Crazy thought: follow me?**


	24. Attack

**Attack || 381  
**

It was one of those days, he decided, when you just should have stayed in bed.

Maybe if he had, this wouldn't be happening.

It had been an easy enough mission: Amanda and Ari wanted a prototype machine that was being sold on the black market, so Ryan sent Niki and Mikey out to intercept and bring it back to Division.

It was so simple, they should have known.

He did a basic scan and determined that it was an emitter of some sort, but beyond that, they would have to turn it on to get any more data. The EM shield he put up around Division would keep the signal contained, and Ryan decided there was no harm in finding out more.

The moment Ryan activated the prototype, Birkhoff knew.

Something inside him, some primal part that _remembered, _recognized the hum coming off the machine. It took him a second to register where he'd felt it before, and that was a second too late.

Stumbling, he hissed as a phantom ice pick buried itself in his brain, and the _hum _grew until it blotted out everything else. He knew this pain, he'd felt it before—back _before. _He was hyperventilating, gulping in huge amounts of air in a failing effort to extinguish the firestorm growing inside him. As his legs buckled and he pitched to the ground, he sent out one last, desperate thought, a shout that was less words and more feeling; it was a trick he'd learned in the Brotherhood, how to project. He'd never guessed that it would have come in handy, and yet…

Yet, he projected all the pain and fear and _Oh GOD, IT HURTS! _towards one mind in particular, the only one he knew would understand. He had the vague sensation of a vast, powerful consciousness pressing against his, and then his vision went white. He lost all ability for rational thought as his head was overwhelmed by a fire—not his fire, not good fire, BAD FIRE—that coursed down his spine and across every nerve in his body. Always before, he'd been immune to the elemental power he commanded, but not this time as the fire raced through him, scorching every coherent concept from his mind.

And all he knew was agony.

**Please review!**


	25. Knowledge

**Knowledge || 555  
**

There were a million things they hadn't known about him, the man they knew as Seymour Birkhoff. They realized that now, only when it was too late. They stood around his station in Operations; it would remain vacant for as long as Division remained active, a silent tribute to their lost friend. They stood and remembered.

They hadn't known that he wasn't _really _Seymour Birkhoff, but St. John Allerdyce. He'd been some homeless kid nobody cared about, no one except an older man in a wheelchair, the first to show him kindness.

Nikita knew what that was like, because years ago, that had been her. She'd been the one with no one to hold her hand or tuck her in at night, surrounded by people who only wanted to exploit and use her. She wished, sometimes, that Birkhoff had even once let on that they shared that kind of past. They could have dealt with their demons together.

They hadn't known that he wasn't American, or that he wasn't even a citizen; he'd just lost his accent somewhere along the way. He'd come to the United States when he was a little boy and never been naturalized. Never had the chance.

Alex and he had that in common, because she wasn't an official citizen either. It had taken her years to assimilate an American accent, and she'd worked her ass off to do it, and in the end, it didn't mean a damn thing. She was still Alexandra at heart, and she imagined that somewhere deep inside, Birkhoff was still St. John.

They hadn't known that he'd written trashy, torrid Gothic romance novels, or that he'd actually gotten them published. He had a widespread fanbase, though serious novelists and critics hated them. His fans sent him letters and e-mails, and he replied to every single one.

Owen would never tell anyone, but while he'd been undercover and spending time with Emily, he'd picked up one of those damn books on a whim. He'd never known _why, _except maybe Emily would like it; she hadn't, but he had, and he'd read every one after that. He almost wanted to cry, because now, there would never be another one.

They hadn't known that he was gay, or that he had a boyfriend in Westchester who was a teacher at a boarding school. Bobby and him, they'd been together since they were students, off and on; hell, they'd even managed to make it work when Allerdyce became Birkhoff.

Ryan could relate; he'd had to do the same thing once, hiding a boyfriend. For Birkhoff, it had been Division, and the risk of a kill order on his beloved. For Ryan, it had been very religious, disapproving parents, and the risk of being separated forever.

There was so much about him that they hadn't known, mostly about his past and life outside of Division. For Nikita, there _wasn't _life outside, and maybe Birkhoff—or whoever he was—could have shown her the way to balance it all out. They didn't care that he'd been a mutant, or even that he'd once stood with Magneto against humanity. In the end, he'd been their friend, and stood with _them _when it mattered.

But.

Yeah—but.

They hadn't really known him at all. They realized that now, and it broke their hearts.

**Please review!**


	26. End

**End || 555  
**

Each breath sends pain through his chest and brings tears to his eyes, but he doesn't cry. It's too late for tears, anyway. Instead, he laughs, and it comes out harsh and chaotic because that's all there is now. Chaos.

He snickers and he snorts as the warped hilarity of the whole damned situation hits him full force, and agony ripples through him with every shake. He's surrounded by twisted, smoking carnage, burning cars and shattered glass, blood, death, and the pain of millions.

All around him, raging across the streets of Manhattan and every major city in America, is the beginnings of a war between humans and mutants. Everything is going to get a helluva lot worse before it gets better, if it ever does.

This is a war whose catastrophic consequences will tear the planet apart once it spreads beyond the USA's borders. And it _will _spread, like wildfire, once mutants worldwide hear how their brothers and sisters are being hunted and slaughtered for no reason except existing. It started with the death of a little mutant girl playing hopscotch, killed with her family at the dinner table; her body was found slumped into her mac n' cheese. The mutants of America erupted in fury, ten years of stifled tension fueling a murderous hunt for revenge. It will end with the destruction of the world, or at least the equivalent of a global nuclear war.

That's how Michael finds him, his body curled around the metal bar and a bloody grin on his face, surrounded by broken glass and smoldering metal.

"Birkhoff!" shouts Michael, and before John can remember _oh, right, that's me, I hate that name, _the ex-military man is crouching down next to him, careful to avoid the sharp edges of the metal.

He laughs again, his body convulsing even as Michael tries to pull him away from the bar so he can get a good look. "Not…Birkhoff," he gasps, his laughter coming to a halt, and drops his head back onto the pavement with a _crack. _There's a faint slice of pain when gravel and ground-up glass breaks the skin. He doesn't elaborate, but he doesn't have to, because by now, Michael _knows._

"Okay," he says softly, and John wonders why that is—either because Michael's busy evaluating the damage or because he already knows that there's nothing to be done. It's too late. John is going to die, and there's nothing Michael or anybody can do except try and ease the pain.

"Who are you?"

Michael seems to have resigned himself to reality, because he ignores the rubble and kneels down next to his broken comrade. John knows how terrible he looks; he can see his reflection in the paint job of a nearby car. He's pale, his veins blue and starkly visible under dry, thin skin; his hair is matted with blood and gore, tangled around his head, and he can't help but remember how Kitty had teased him only days ago about needing a haircut. He knows his eyes are red with burst vessels, pupils blown wide until there is only a thin ring of brown.

The pyro locks eyes with his friend—at least, he hopes they're still friends, though he won't blame Mikey one bit if he hates him after everything—and takes a wet, shuddering breath.

"Saint…John…Allerdyce," he wheezes; he tastes fresh blood and his chest, where it isn't painful, is heavy. He figures that one of his broken ribs has punctured a lung; all that means is he's dying faster. It's a question of what will kill him first—the pole through his stomach or his lungs filling with blood.

Michael cracks a grin, and even though it tight and clearly forced, John is more grateful than Mikey would ever know.

"Saint John? Weird name."

"Weird…parents," John agrees. Weird, religious parents who're probably turning in their graves, if they aren't still alive, knowing what he'd become. He's probably the farthest thing from a saint there is, except maybe a few choice psycho murdering pervs.

A hoarse cough forces its way up and out of his screamed-raw throat, ripping from his lips with flying spittle. He doubles over the best he can, hacking violently, chest heaving. When it subsides, there's fresh blood on his lips, tricking from the corners of his mouth and down the sides of his face.

He has only minutes left and he knows it, and Michael knows it too, because the other man holsters his gun and pulls John into his arms—not quite a hug, but an embrace nonetheless.

"You should have told us," says Michael; he's talking about John keeping his mutation a secret. John shrugs the best he can; only one shoulder raises.

"My…business…my—" and he hopes that explains it, because he really doesn't have the breath to elaborate. He always knew that he could have trusted Niki and Mikey with his secret—they would never turn on him—but he'd played it close to the vest for so long, he didn't know how to live any different. Besides, he left John and Pyro behind him, and that was where he'd wanted them to stay. But now, at the end, he doesn't have to keep all his selves separate anymore.

He's all of them.

"Don't let them win," he whispers, hoarse, cracked, and labored. It's coming, the end, and coming _fast, _and he knows it. His hand slips off Michael's shoulder and falls limp into his lap, and _snap, _something in his chest breaks, he can feel it.

John smiles and leans his head against Michael because it's just…so…heavy…, and then he's gone. His fire is out, extinguishing the once bright, lively blaze and leaving only a shattered, hollow shell behind.

**Yes, I really went there. So, that's the _end _of this series, I hope you all enjoyed it. A huge thanks, plus lots of hugs and kisses to The Sanghelli Mutant! To the rest of you, please review! Take a moment to tell me which one was your favorite, what you would have liked to see, what you liked, what you _didn't _like, etc. Hell, tell me if it sucked.  
**

**Anyway, thank you to everyone. Check out my other fics, and keep an eye out for any Nikita fics coming up.**

**~Nagi**


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